Lord of Souls: An Elder Scrolls Novel (29 page)

Attrebus found himself on his back, staring up at what appeared at first to be a few cottony clouds in a perfectly blue sky. But as he garnered his strength to rise, he noted odd unsettling patches, greenish-gray streaks that didn’t appear to be clouds but were more like stains on the sky itself.

He pushed himself up and saw Sul doing the same.

They had landed in a field of white clover—a woodland meadow that might have come right out of the paintings of Lythandas of Dar-Ei. But like the sky, a close look revealed withered, twisted foliage and odd melted-looking places that his eyes couldn’t focus on. Beneath the perfume of wildflowers, the breeze carried a scent of profound decay, like a wound gone to gangrene.

“That was different,” Attrebus said, glancing at Sul. “It never felt like that when we traveled in Oblivion before.”

“That’s because we didn’t travel here,” Sul said. “We were summoned.”

Attrebus caught a motion from the corner of his eye and faced it. A small white dog was watching them from the edge of the
clearing, where a little path wound off into the woods. It twitched its head toward the trail and wagged its tail excitedly.

“You think he wants us to follow him?”

“I think that’s safe to say,” Sul said.

“Safe to say, but safer to do,” the dog added in a yappy little voice. Attrebus felt he should have been surprised, but somehow he wasn’t.

“Do we have a choice?” Attrebus asked, pointing the question at Sul. Unless the dog was really Clavicus Vile—which, given his experience with Malacath, wasn’t impossible—they didn’t seem to be in any immediate danger.

The Dunmer shook his head in the negative. “Follow the dog,” he said.

The dog led them from the clearing along the little trail, where the vegetation seemed to grow progressively sicklier. They crossed a brook on a fallen log, and he saw fish floating on the surface, their gills working desperately. Something fluttered by in the trees, which he at first perceived to be a bird, then a butterfly the size of a hawk, and finally a caterpillar with wings.

They wound along a spiral trail up a hill, where they found a table large enough to seat thirty or so, with whimsically slim legs that terminated in hooves. Now and then one of the hooves would lift and stamp, rattling the empty plates and cups on the table. Beyond the hill, the colors of the world seemed to melt and flow before the sky gave way completely to shimmering chaos. From this height, Attrebus could see that the trees and grass only extended a mile or so in any direction before similarly dissolving at the edges.

Seated at the head of the table, on a large wooden throne, was what appeared to be a boy of perhaps thirteen or fourteen years, although his lack of shirt displayed a paunch that would have been more at home on a middle-aged beer glutton. He had what appeared to be a goat horn growing from above his right eyebrow, but
over the left there was a festering sore. He had his bare feet up on the table crossed at the ankles, and a mean little smile showed on his face. His eyes were most peculiar; Attrebus somehow could not focus on them, but his impression was contradictory: They seemed empty, but empty in a way that nevertheless held limitless meaning.

When the boy saw Sul and Attrebus, he laughed. It was an eerie laugh, almost like the imitation of one, although there seemed to be a tinge of genuine madness there as well.

The dog hopped up on the table. “I give you Prince Clavicus Vile,” it announced, and then fell over and began licking itself.

The boyish figure inclined his head slightly in acknowledgment. Then he pointed a finger.

“You, Sul. Bring me that thing.”

“We bring it in good faith,” Sul said. “We wish to discuss a compact.”

“A compact,” Vile said, exaggerating Sul’s Dunmer accent. “Oh, do you? Oh, very well. Why don’t
you
sit here, and be the daedra prince, and I’ll just stand down where you are and be the stupid mortal who doesn’t know exactly how close he is to being a turnip. Or a boil on a turnip.” He turned to the dog. “Do turnips get boils?”

“Galls, I think,” the dog replied. “Not boils.”

“Whatever,” Vile said. He turned back to Sul. “I don’t have to ask nicely, you know. It’s mine.”

Something happened, but it was too fast for Attrebus to see. Sul grunted and dropped to his knees, and Vile—still in his chair—had Umbra.

“Don’t think I’m weak,” Vile said. “Everyone who comes here now thinks I’m weak, just because a wee bit of my stuff has been stolen. The trick is, if you’ve got less to work with, you just don’t spread it so thin. My realm may be a little smaller than in happier times, but in it I’m just as strong as I ever was.”

“Well,” the dog said, “I wouldn’t go that far.”

“Hush, Barbas, before I feed you to my hounds.”

“Which would be me, sir,” the dog said.

“If you’re after making a point, I really don’t take it,” Vile said as he unwrapped the blade. When he touched it, a shudder went through him, and he cast it on the table.

“Well, it’s no good to me like that,” he said. “Sul, don’t you at least know better than to bring it to me like
that
?”

Sul was having trouble answering, however. He was still on his hands and knees.

“What are you doing to him?” Attrebus demanded.

“What?” the daedra asked, and then blinked. “Oh, right.”

Sul suddenly heaved a deep breath. He sat back on his heels, gasping.

“Haven’t I always done my best by you people?” Vile asked. “Haven’t I always tried to provide instruction and opportunities for you to improve yourselves? I’ve treated you with good humor, like equals, really. And where is the respect I’m due? Really, I’m just tired of it now.” He sat back. “Just tired. Really.”

“We know what happened to Umbra,” Attrebus said. “We know where he is. That’s why we’ve been looking for the sword in the first place.”

“First of all,” Vile said, “let’s not go calling anyone ‘Umbra.’ There is no Umbra. This—thing—that suffers from the delusion that it is its own—
person
—is actually nothing of the kind, do you understand? No more than a stone rolling down a hill is capable of real self-locomotion. Or an abacus of doing math by itself. What was in this sword was
me
, plain and simple. If someone cut your leg off and the leg starting calling itself ‘Umbra,’ it would still be your leg, wouldn’t it? You wouldn’t humor it, would you? Help it out with its delusions of grandeur?”

“No, certainly not,” Attrebus said.

“There you go,” Vile said. “That’s just what I’ve been saying. Not nearly so dumb as you look.” His strange eyes narrowed and he put on a boyish smile.

“But go on. You were telling me where the rest of me is.”

“In Tamriel, in a city known as Umbriel.”

“Again,”
Vile snarled, “the name of the city isn’t Umbriel. I created it,
me
. Its real name is—” He scratched his chin. “Well, I don’t remember. But it isn’t Umbriel. More, with the putting on airs.” Vile swung his feet from the table and leaned forward, bracing his hands against the table.

“So it’s in Tamriel now? I’ve caught glimpses of it, now and then, but how could he possibly have gotten into Nirn?”

“We’re not sure of that ourselves,” Attrebus said. “But we’re determined to stop Um—ah, your city.”

“By returning what was stolen to the sword,” Vile said thoughtfully.

“Yes.”

“And then you were just going to bring the sword back to me, weren’t you?” Vile said.

“Ah—of course,” Attrebus agreed.

“You most certainly were not,” Vile said. “But that’s fine, things have changed. You’ve come to me for a reason.”

Attrebus looked at Sul, who gave him a warning glance.

“The city of which we speak is destroying Tamriel,” Attrebus said. “It’s on its way to the Imperial City.”

“Is it?” Vile said. Attrebus thought the daedra’s ears actually twitched. “Ah, I see. And you found the sword in Solstheim. So you don’t have time to get there. This is really funny.”

“I don’t see how,” Attrebus said. “I should think you would want us to reach it.”

“I want what was stolen from me,” the daedra admitted. “That means someone has to stab this nonentity that calls itself Umbra with that sword. Given the circumstances of the city’s existence, I can take it from there. But it doesn’t matter to me if that happens sooner or later, does it?”

“But if you wait until my country—my people—are destroyed, why would I help you then?”

“It needn’t be you; I have mortal followers, lots of them.”

“I don’t understand, then,” Attrebus said. “What do you want from us?”

“What he wants is a deal,” Sul said. “A contract.”

“Now, there you go,” Vile said. “A man who knows the ways of the world. Or worlds, as it were.”

“What sort of deal?” Attrebus asked.

“Well—one of your souls will do.”

“That’s outrageous,” Attrebus said.

“Very well,” Vile said. “I’ll just send you on your way, then. Without the sword.”

“If it’s a soul you want—” Sul began.

“Stop!” Attrebus commanded.

And Sul actually did, his lips in mid-syllable.

“The pup is barking,” Barbas said.

Sul and Vile both turned withering gazes on him, but he held himself straight.

“Vuhon is taking Umbriel to the Imperial City for a reason,” Attrebus said. “It has to do with the White-Gold Tower. I don’t know what he’s up to, but I think you do. I think if he gets to the White-Gold Tower, you lose, which means you need us,
now
—not some followers who might or might not do the job in the future. You’re just trying to trick us, get a little extra out of it. So there is only one deal here, Prince Clavicus Vile—you get us as close to Umbriel as possible, and you do it immediately. We get your missing power back, we’re rid of Umbriel. No conditions.”

Vile hunched forward, his face wrinkling in a sneer.

“Do you honestly think you can talk to me like that? That after that little bit of impertinence I’ll just let you alone?”

“You don’t have a choice, unless you plan for this dreary little realm to be all you have for the rest of time,” Attrebus rejoined.

Vile smiled and leaned back. “Right then,” he sighed. “But that doesn’t mean I’ll let you alone. There are costs, whether a bargain is struck or not. You’re clever, but you don’t think toward the long term, and you will regret it eventually. But here we are. Fine. Take the sword, but be careful not to wield it until it’s time to thrust it in, yes? And I’ll put you close. I can’t put you in my city because he’s made it so I can’t see it, but if it’s going to the Imperial City, why don’t I just send you there?”

“That sounds good to me,” Attrebus replied.

“Well, what are we waiting for?” the daedra asked, his tone brightening. “Good meeting you fellows. Best of luck to us all, eh? At least for now.”

He gestured for Sul to pick up the sword. The Dark Elf rewrapped it and slung it on his back.

Then Clavicus Vile waved them away with his hand, and they were gone.

Attrebus had come to expect surprises moving to and from Oblivion, but that didn’t stop him from yelping when he appeared ten feet off the ground. He waved his arms desperately, striking a tree, which overbalanced him. He landed on his heels going back, and his butt took a lot of the force before his spine slapped into the pine needles and the all-too-solid earth they covered.

He kept his wind, and almost felt like laughing. Had Vile dropped them on purpose? Or was the daedra prince even weaker than he let on, and not in good control of his powers?

Sul would know.

Attrebus stood up and brushed off, then looked around for his companion, but didn’t see him in the immediate vicinity. What he did see was a large stone statue of Clavicus Vile with a dog at his
side, albeit a much larger animal than the one they’d just encountered. A clearing surrounded the statue, but gave way to forest pretty quickly in every direction.

He had heard rumors that there was a shrine to Vile somewhere west of the Imperial City, not far from the Ring Road. If this was it—and that made a certain amount of sense—then they didn’t have too far to go.

He looked around again, this time more carefully. Dark things were supposed to happen at places like this, and even though the daedra himself had sent them here, that didn’t mean they were safe from his followers.

Closer inspection didn’t reveal anyone else, but he did notice Sul’s boot sticking out from behind the shrine.

“Sul?” he cried, running across the clearing.

Sul was breathing, but his eyes were closed and he was bleeding from a nasty gash in his head. He must have fallen, too, but hadn’t been as lucky as Attrebus.

“Hey, Sul!” Attrebus patted him on the cheek, but that didn’t draw a response. He poured some water from his skin and washed the wound. He couldn’t see any bone, and the skull didn’t seem dented. He stripped off the heavy coat he wore and cut strips of the lining, then tied the bandage around Sul’s head. Through all of that, the Dunmer showed no signs of waking up.

Attrebus sat there for a moment, trying to decide what to do. He felt very alone, and it began to sink in exactly how much he relied on the old man for strength, knowledge—even occasional encouragement. What if the wound was more serious than it looked? What if Sul was dying? Would he have any chance of finishing this? A chance, maybe, but a much bleaker one than if he had the sorcerer at his side.